Vows of the Shekinah
by mercurialmaven
Summary: A few old faces, a few choice words, and the dance begins. With the world once again in danger, Team Free Will is called up to put their lives and their faith on the line. This time, however, it's completely impersonal and the monsters they once fought may be their only salvation. *Chapter One has been rewritten to hopefully suck less*
1. Chapter 1

"And what of this dance? When will it be enough?" She really can't answer that. She is never, truly, able to say when the dance will be over. When the world will collapse upon itself; snuffing out in more dimensions than just one. She knows the rhythm like the back of her hand, the tap of her toes, and the jingle of the bells on her anklets and every time she takes a step, her hips swaying to the music only she can hear, a little more of the earth crumbles and weeps.

"Brother, they have brought unyielding war to my people. They have destroyed and pillaged while releasing unspeakable horrors into the world and yet we are the savages." She turns her back to him and crosses her arms below her breasts. "We have been silent for too long."

"If we destroy them," the young man says, his tone ominous, "the world will become alight with flame. The seas will run red and the skies will darken with ash." He walks to her side, his eyes peering out over the desert that makes up their realm, their home.

"Then let it burn."

And the dance begins.

Dean Winchester knew only two things for certain. 1) Bert and Ernie were gay and 2) supernatural shit would, inevitably, mess your day up. It doesn't matter what form it comes in, shit would go down and not pleasantly. _Pleasantly Dean?_ It was time for his brain to shut up.

Chucking the last of the salt around the foot boards of their latest safe house, Dean purses his lips and goes through his mental checklist. Food? Check. Weapons? Check. Sam's bitch face? He looks across the room towards the mop of hair nearly infused with a computer screen. Check. Castiel is probably scouting the immediate area outside of the dilapidated bungalow they would call home for the foreseeable future. Far from even a medium sized town, taking the 20 miles to the closest general store would, hopefully, only happen once or twice.

Pulling a legal pad from Sam's duffel he takes a seat opposite his brother and gazes out of the window. Dusk already begins to fade. The witching hours or, as Sam once remarked, the Winchester hours do their monotonous shuffle towards the present. Early spring meant they didn't have to find a stove to light. For this Dean is eternally grateful, somehow he always ends up being the one responsible for that chore.

"You're just better at it." Sam would say with an exasperated wave of his hand and Dean wouldn't argue if only because his desire to be warm tended to trump Sam's desire to not get dirty.

"Find anything Sammy?" Dean reaches for a book to his Sam's right and gives an extra hard tug when the younger man's elbow seems to dig down into the cover to keep it from moving.

"I'm reading that!" Sam snaps. "And no, from everything I'm finding there doesn't seem to be a connection between these seismological anomalies and demonic activity."

Dean nods, his subtle way of saying he stopped listening the moment a "no" was Sam's answer. They both know something is "up." Besides something always being "up" because that's just how their world works, the fact that earthquakes, geysers, and all sorts of weird ground shit has started popping up in areas known for not having to deal with said weird shit meant this was a job for the Winchesters, whether they wanted to be holed up in the Appalachian or not. _Plate tectonics Dean. _Dean frowns, and gives his brain the order to never correct him with something he's heard from Sam ever again.

Sam's diligent research turned up geological reports touting 1-2 inch rises in the height of the ancient, and well worn, mountains of the eastern United States an occurrence so out of place the younger brother had them packed and heading across the Mississippi before Dean's umpteenth cup of coffee was given a chance to cool.

From the thick of it in some deciduous forest precariously rooted in West Virginia they set up base camp. Instantly, Castiel was not a fan. His arrival is as silent as always save the slight tension that fills the air following his materialization.

"There is nothing physically unusual about this place." He says, taking a seat on the edge of the battered sofa against the stairwell wall. His silence is pensive, more pensive than usual, slightly unnerving in its weight and depth.

"So what's wrong?" Dean asks, "I mean if there's nothing unusual then why do you look so spooked?"

Castiel frowns. "I am not spooked Dean. I just…" His voice, and eyes, trail off back to the window and the picturesque scene outside of it. He takes in the sunset's rosy fingered embrace across the sky. "I felt something out there. Something I haven't felt in a long time."

"And that was?" Sam asks, his attention now fully engaged by the conversation.

"Creation. Divine Birth."

"Uh, really Cas?" Dean's eyebrow rises in incredulous inquiry. "I thought God created everything already. Does he have extra creations," air quotes, "in the warehouse or something?"

Castiel looks over his shoulder for a brief moment before turning back to the window. "Humanity's perception of what is and is not, or what can or cannot be is limited in its scope. It's why you write holy books, thousands of them to try to understand it."

Dean's stare goes from curious to bored. "Sammy, you taking notes? OW!" he clutches his shin and glares back at his brother. While Sam and Castiel do not always have the closest relationship, the mutual respect they hold for one another insures that punishments for Dean's frequent insolence are swift and not mortally wounding.

Dean's derisive snort punctuates the silence. "That doesn't really answer my question Cas."

A world weary sigh. "In your gospels, creation ends after seven days. The assumption being that my Father ceased his endeavors and everything became still." Castiel's gazes returns to the two brothers. "That is not the case. Nor has it ever been so."

"So God's making stuff again? Great! Maybe he can make someone else to clean up his messes." Dean barely finishes his sentence before a book smacks him squarely in the face.

"Thank you Sam."

"No Problem."


	2. Chapter 2

It's dark and he's warm. So far the two conditions equal safety especially considering he's dead. What's this? A hand? He waves it in front of his eyes and squints to take in the outline of individual fingers and ridges of flesh. Dead people do not normally have hands. Scratch that. They do have hands but they usually can't wave said appendages in front of their own faces.

So, mental recap; he's warm, it's dark, and he has hands. So far this looks like a good start. He listens for something, anything, to interrupt the solitude and stillness. Whispers. Okay, so he has ears too and they're working. This is great! If he has a mouth he can probably shout for assistance. So he tries and he pierces the veil. _Holy Shit._

He laughs at his own blasphemy.

"So why don't you just pop up to Heaven and see if anyone knows anything?" Dean asks, moving a chunk of fried potato from one cheek to the other. They still have no leads and time is ticking. While he is certain this event, whatever it is, is important they've been stagnant for three days and his palms are starting to itch.

At first they thought maybe things were slowing down, but Northern lights were spotted as far south as Washington D.C. and a group of Tibetan monks, who had long before disbanded, set the stage on fire literally. Sam and Dean both stared in awe at the Youtube video of 50 men setting themselves aflame, saying there would be no rebirth for them and they would rather die than try to live again.

"It's kind of sad really." Sam said as he closed his laptop, "The rebirth cycle is pivotal to enlightenment. They can't reach it if they don't come back again."

Dean shrugged. "Waffles. Hashbrowns. Now."

Which brought them to their current hole in the wall; a small shack offering waffles with breakfast tacos and potatoes fried with chilies. "Someone's going to be rolling down some windows as soon as we get in the car." Sam murmurs. His scowl deepens when Dean splashes another dash of hot sauce on his gut- wrenching plate.

Even Castiel, who has seen Dean eat any manner of things in a plethora of ways, can't stop his wide eyed stare as the older hunter continues to shovel forkfuls into his mouth. "If it was that simple I would but Heaven is still in the process of rebuilding. I don't know whether anyone would be aware of anything." Both Sam and Castiel jump as Dean's fork clatters to his plate.

"Come on Cas seriously? When is Heaven not rebuilding, or regrouping, or re-waxing, or re-whatever-the-fucking? Someone has to know something. This kind of stuff doesn't happen without at least one feather brained asshole being in on it."

"That's not necessary Sam." Castiel interrupts the younger Winchester who is slowly lowering the sugar container that was, more than likely, heading for Dean's head. "If I go to Heaven with this, the Host will become involved which could make things much more difficult than they are now. Don't you agree?"

Dean puts on his thinking face, which Sam will never stop finding hilarious, and nods. "I can see your point there."

"So what do you think we should do Cas?" Sam asks.

"The best thing to do would be to take another case. Perhaps wait until something more substantial comes up."

Dean grunts in approval and pushes the plate away, finally satiated. "Now that sounds like a plan I can get with. Let's hit the road." The blur between the diner and the open road is enough to get him back to feeling somewhat normal again. They decide to stay on the East Coast and investigate an infestation of snakes in a small town in Tennessee.

"Sammy, it's the south. Snakes are everywhere."

Sam frowns. Is this Dean's pouty voice? "Yes. But snakes don't normally have venom that leads to mania. Death and/or agonizing pain definitely, but not insanity."

"Touche." A rumbling, monotone, voice pipes up from the back seat.

Dean hates being out numbered.


End file.
